I'll Be Waiting
by Non Timebo Malo
Summary: Sebastian Moran wants nothing more than to have stopped Jim from pulling the trigger, but he's racing against a clock that's already run out. Seb's view on Jim's part in The Reichenbach Fall; implied MorMor. Adele "I'll Be Waiting" songfic.


_Summary: It's a strange feeling, when time is working against you. Sebastian Moran wants nothing more than to have stopped Jim from pulling the trigger, but he's racing against a clock that's already run out. Seb's view on Jim's part in The Reichenbach Fall; implied Mormor. Adele "I'll Be Waiting" song ficlet._

_The boldface words are lyrics to "I'll Be Waiting" by Adele. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong><em><span>I'll Be Waiting<span>_**

**_But we had time against us,__  
><em>_And miles between us,__  
><em>_The heavens cried,__  
><em>**_**I know I left you speechless**._

It's a strange feeling, when time is working against you. As Sebastian ran down the dark, deserted alley, his heartbeat was pounding an erratic rhythm against his rib cage, seeming to beat to the same too-fast time as the hands of the pocket-watch tucked into the pocket of his jeans. Wind whipped against his bare skin in the places where those jeans were ripped into shredded little runs that weren't a part of the pants' original design. Time was moving too damn fast, and he was moving too damn slow.

He'd been watching, watching St. Bart's rooftop, watching Holmes. But mostly, he'd been watching Jim. And when the man had stuck his gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger, Sebastian wanted so desperately to drop his rifle and run for the hospital, run for Moriarty. He didn't though; Jim had given him a job to do, and he'd specified that Seb was to do that job _no matter what._ This was never a part of the plan, but Sebastian could not simply drop his end of the deal. He had to watch Sherlock, had to see the detective jump, had to be absolutely certain that it happened, and, if it didn't, his job would become even longer and more complex. He'd have three people to shoot and one detective to make wish he had jumped after all.

The moment the tall, coated figure took flight, though, Sebastian was gone, running from his hideout more quickly than a tiger on the trail of its prey. He was racing time itself, as if darting off quickly enough could send him back in time, back to before Jim pulled the trigger. All Sebastian wanted to do was stop his boss from doing what he'd already done.

His footfalls against the concrete ground of the alleyway sounded like gunfire to his sensitive ears as he ran, pushing himself harder and harder, exerting himself more and more with every step. Even when he tried to keep his mind focused only on extending his stride and keeping his breathing steady, Sebastian couldn't help but consider his fault in the matter. For anyone else, it would seem silly to feel the sort of guilt that was presently gripping Sebastian, but to Moran, it was the most intrinsic, natural sentiment he could ever feel in a situation such as this.

Why hadn't he stopped Jim from leaving their flat and avoided this whole situation? Why hadn't he sent a bullet soaring through the London skies earlier, embedded it in the detective's heart before Jim had… done what he did? Why hadn't he been there, why hadn't he convinced Jim to hire another sniper to observe from afar so that Sebastian could've joined him, provided backup?

**_I've seen your face under every sky,__  
><em>_Over every border and on every line,__  
><em>_You know my heart more than I do,__  
><em>_We were the greatest, me and you._**

The sinking feeling Sebastian had felt when he'd watched Jim walk out the door of their flat and toward St. Bart's was now a feeling of drowning. His lungs made a valiant attempt to stay steady, to keep pace, but, between the travails of sprinting so quickly over such a long distance and the cold, gripping loss he was feeling, he noticed his breath start to become irregular, shaky.

But he ignored it. He just kept running, just kept chastising himself for not having been closer, for not having been right there beside Jim.

From the very first time Moran had laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, he'd had a sneaking suspicion that this detective was _not_ just another one of Jim's personal vendettas. Holmes was different. He was too intelligent, too tricky, too dangerously clever, just… too much like Moriarty himself. The men were so equally matched in almost every way that any form of competition between them would come down to the simple luck of the draw. The only real question in their little game was to whom the best hand would be dealt.

Sebastian quite nearly laughed at that analogy, laughed at the thought of Moriarty and Sherlock doing something so ordinary as playing a game of cards. Although, that would probably be horribly entertaining to see, watching both of them try so hard to outsmart the other, to leave the other just one step behind.

This wasn't a card game, though. This was more like a game of Russian Roulette. Except, the Roulette gun wasn't loaded with a single bullet, not this time. This time it had _two_ bullets waiting in its barrel, and both men had run out of luck. Both times, that gun had fired, leaving both men dead in the crimson wake of a dangerous game, Moriarty at the end of a real gun and Sherlock in a twisted heap on the ground below the hospital.

It wasn't as if Moran hadn't foreseen their little dance ending this way. And, for that, he blamed himself even more. He should have been by Moriarty's side. He should've been there to support his boss just as he had in every other one of the jobs they'd undertaken together. Moran had been right by Moriarty's side to watch a building blow up in France, a palace fall in Baghdad, an avalanche race down a hill and bring down a vast expanse of inhabited forest land in the Swiss Alps. He'd always been there, except when Jim needed him most- atop a hospital in London.

**_Hold me closer one more time,__  
><em>_Say that you love me in your last goodbye,__  
><em>_Please forgive me for my sins,__  
><em>_Yes, I swam dirty waters,__  
><em>_But you pushed me in._**

Sebastian's frame was shaking, seized by harsh, violent intakes of breath and a far-too-strong heartbeat when he finally reached St. Bartholomew's. A crowd was already gathering around the detective's bruised and beaten, contorted body on the sidewalk, but Sebastian passed them by without even looking at the detective for fear that the simple sight of the man would be temptation enough to shoot him right between the glazed-over eyes in contemptuous disgust. This was partly Sherlock's fault as well, after all.

Nobody even looked up as the large, thick-framed man dashed by. The hospital's lobby was bustling with people, but they were also far too involved in the sight on the sidewalk to notice Sebastian. Good. Easier for him to run up to the rooftop unnoticed, to slip by the conscious notice of the general public and just get to Moriarty.

The hospital's stairs creaked eerily under Seb's metal-toed boots, reverberating with the chords a lamenting song as old as time itself. When Sebastian reached the landing atop those stairs, having never once broken pace, he laid his hand on the doorknob and froze. His eyes were immediately called downward toward the slight crack between the bottom of the door and the concrete ground of the rooftop. There, a trail of scarlet stood in sharp contrast with the gray around it. Was that…?

Yes. Yes it was. Bending down to run one finger through it, Sebastian answered his own question. Yes, it was, indeed, blood.

Closing his eyes and biting down on his lip, probably hard enough to draw blood of his own, Sebastian turned the knob and swung the door open. His senses felt as though they were shutting down, dulling themselves in an effort at self-preservation as his eyes fell to follow that little river of blood running across the rooftop.

Finally, he reached the river's bank and could look no further. Jim's Westwood looked so unnaturally wrinkled on his frame. His shoes were wet with his own blood. The tails of his dark tie were blood-soaked.

Possibly the worst part of it all was his eyes. They were open, wide-open, almost as if Jim had needed _so badly_ to see Sherlock fall that even in death, he simply could never have looked away. He just _had to _see it happen, had to make sure his death wasn't in vain. Sebastian's own eyes locked with his boss's, and for a moment, he was lost in the thought that Moriarty was simply staring at him in the same way he had so many nights in their flat. It almost looked as though his eyes were wide and his pupils were blown with attraction the way they had been the night before, the very last night they'd ever spend together.

Suddenly, Seb was squatting beside the body, pulling Jim's limp frame into his arms. Red-hot blood was still running from his head, dying the sun-bleached blue of Sebastian's jeans a haunted, terrible scarlet.

"Boss? Boss, _Jim," _Sebastian mumbled, his lips brushing against Moriarty's forehead, "You know, you told me over and over again that you weren't a hero. There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. Jim, it never mattered to me, how bad you told me you were, how often you told me you weren't the good guy. You were the best man, the most human… human being that I've ever known, and I've known _a lot_ of people, watched _a lot_ of great men fall. But you, you were the best of them, and no one will ever convince me that you weren't the King, that you weren't a great man. I will never believe that you ever once lied to me, no matter how intricate the webs you weaved were. And so… there. I was so alone, Jim, when I left the military, hell, my whole damned life, and I owe you so much. There's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Jim, for me, don't be dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this, Boss, stop this."

**_But we had time against us,__  
><em>_And miles between us,__  
><em>_The heavens cried,__  
><em>_I know I left you speechless._**

Seb fell asleep there that night, cradling Jim's body to his chest under a sky darker than that in the darkest of fairytales, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, he'd be awakened by the light stroke of Jim's fingers against his face just as he had been the previous morning. Because he was Jim fucking Moriarty. He was a great man. And sometimes when great men fell, they got back up again. Only five words lingered in Sebastian Moran's haunted dreams that night- _He'll get back up again._

* * *

><p><em>So there's that. Snipers have feelings too, and sometimes they coincide quite nicely with Adele lyrics. ;) <em>

_I hope everyone enjoyed that ficlet! I would truly adore hearing your opinions. So very much love to the reviewers!_


End file.
